


Heaven Don't Have a Name

by fvckingavengers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvckingavengers/pseuds/fvckingavengers
Summary: Takes place after the snap. The other’s think you’re headed on a downward spiral, taking revenge into your own hands. Seeking danger and not caring of the outcome. Clint sees the beauty in your wrath.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Heaven Don't Have a Name

Pain.

That’s all there was left in the world. One common factor that every single person left alive shared.

The grief was too much to bare. The weight on your shoulders too grand to keep your head above water and keep your chin up the way the others pretended to do.

No. You were angry. Had no problem showing it, either. You could have placed blame. On Quill. On Thor. But you saved it for yourself. The blood of millions were on your hands. Stained them crimson, never able to cleanse yourself of it.

You all coped in different ways. Steve sought out therapy, holding group meetings three times a week. Natasha threw herself into work; searching for answers. Searching for hope. After a while, everyone sort of went their own ways. Finding it hard to look at one another without falling apart.

Meanwhile, you were seeking justice. There was still a whole lot of bad in the world that needed to be stopped. Your restless mind wouldn’t let you sleep at night anyway, so what’s a better use of your time and skill than to put an end to it?

But the thing is, that it never ended. No matter how many times and how many people you killed; it never ceased. Never paused to take a breath. It was the one constant thing in your life and it ate away at you until your humanity was gone and left an empty shell in it’s wake.

 _“She’s going off the deep end.”_ You heard Steve tell Natasha one night. It was late. Two in the morning or so. They were sharing a bowl of Ramen and conversing in hushed tones. _“There’s no coming back from the road she’s heading down.”_

 _“There’s always hope, Steve.”_ Natasha tried to argue. 

Steve paused for a beat. Sighed heavily as he scratched his beard. _“Is there?”_

That was the night you left the compound. Packed some clothes and gathered your weapons. Grabbed the first set of keys you could find from Tony’s garage, and set out on your own. You had no plan. No specific course of action. But trouble was never far. Never hard to find. You’d follow it willingly until it brought you to your demise.

**

A year has passed since you last saw any of them. You destroyed your coms. Ditched your phone somewhere in the Patomac so that they couldn’t track you. Who knows if they even wanted to.

You stayed within the boarder of the States for a while. Traded Stark’s Audi R8 for a Dodge Charger. Common. Untraceable. Drove through every state line. Stayed in shitty hotels with threadbare sheets that scratched against your skin and peeling wallpaper that just seemed, _depressing_.

But you never stayed there longer than necessary. Small town bars and pubs became your temporary home. If there was one thing you could count on, it was that the alcohol would take your pain away. Vodka when it was a particularly hard day. Too much blood smudging your vision and all you could see was red. Whiskey for when the loneliness hit.

The comforting amber liquid always made you feel warm. Tingly. It made you forget, if even for just a little while, that you were all alone. No one to turn to. No one to call. No one to share your hurt and anxieties and sorrows with. Jack Daniels and Jameson never let you down, and they were always right there to pick you back up.

You can’t remember the last time you were sober. Even with the aid of ethanol, sleep still betrays you. Never graces you with its presence long enough to actually make an impact. Insomnia was a cruel bitch.

You’re in Arizona when you get a call. Sedona at three in the morning is eerie. Heat lightning crackling through the sky and coyotes howling. Warding their terrain. The burner phone vibrates on the nightstand. You catch it just as it falls and groan as you roll onto your back to look at the calling number.

No one had your information. The damn thing had never even been used for incoming or outgoing messages or calls. You only kept it in the case of an emergency. When you ultimately fucked up and had to call Rogers to either save your ass or pick up your corpse.

You flip the device open but don’t dare mutter a word. Hold the receiver to your ear and listen to the heavy breathing of the person on the other end. For a whole damn minute, the unknown caller keeps you at the edge of your seat, anticipating _something_. Some kind of indicator as to who they are and what the fuck they want. 

But you got nothing. The line went dead and it left you in a cold sweat. The flip phone breaks in your grip and the pieces fall to the floor to be forgotten.

**

He finds you in Tokyo.

The air is thick, stifling. It tastes like copper. Metallic. Like blood. Like the blood that’s splattered on the damp concrete under your feet. You took out eight men on your own. Barely broke a sweat. Hardly had to plan your attack. It came second nature, you didn’t have to calculate a single movement or even think. Your body knew what to do.

The rain soaks your clothes. They stick to you like the humidity sticks to the hot summer breeze. Neon lights pave the way as you walk away from the gruesome scene. The hood hanging over your head leaves you unrecognizable. No one dares approach you as you walk along the now quiet street.

You return to your flat. It’s dark. Cold. You’ve made it as homey as you could with scented candles and soft lighting. It’s peaceful but unsettling. The lack of sound reminds you of the loneliness that creeps up every night.

When you open the door, you feel a presence. You’re not alone. You grip the end of your katana tightly, ready to attack the intruder in the blink of an eye.

The moonlight brings out the shine of his hair. If you look hard enough, you can see the few gray strands stand out. You keep your sword extended and your jaw clenches.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice is husky. Hoarse, and there’s a rasp to it that he doesn’t remember hearing in your tone previously.

He remains in the shadows. Nothing but moonlight and the street lamp showing his familiar features. “What? No hello for an old friend?”

You scoff, a faux smile spreading across your face. “Got the old part right. The gray is coming in nicely. Pairs well with the crows feet. But I don’t see a friend here. I see a man who left without a trace. Not a goddamn word let alone a goodbye. I don’t owe this man a thing. Especially not a warm greeting.”

Your words stung, but he did little to show the impact. It was a low blow. You knew full well why he left. His wife. His family. Didn’t mean it hurt any less when he disappeared.

Then Thanos happened. He didn’t reach out to let anyone know he was alright or even alive.

Finally, he steps out from the darkness. He looks, _different_. More rugged. There’s stubble on his chin and upper lip. Hair shaved into a mohawk. A sleeve tattoo painted on his left arm. He hardly looked like the man you once knew.

“You’re getting sloppy with your work. You started out good but you’re slipping. Someone’s gonna find out what you’ve been doing and it’s not gonna end well for you.” His tone turns gruff. Warning.

It makes you scoff.

“What, did Nat tell you to come check on me?”

“I’ve kept my eye on you longer than you know. Didn’t want you making a bonehead move and getting yourself killed.” His words hiss through gritted teeth.

You roll your eyes and finally flick on a light on your way to the kitchen. Grab the bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter and hop up on the surface.

“I’m a big girl, Clint. Can take care of myself. I’m not the kid you recruited five years ago. I’m fully aware of the consequences my actions bring. If it’s my time to go, then it’s my time to go.” You shrug and take a long swig from the bottle.

“So that’s it?” He steps closer and snatches the bottle from you. “You’re pulling suicide missions? Jesus, kid.”

You yank the bottle back, causing a few beads of alcohol to spill from the sides of his mouth. “Call it what you want. I’m using my abilities and skill set to stop horrible people from doing horrible things. Those sons of bitches all have it coming to them. Karma is a fucking bitch and I’ll get mine someday too. But in the meantime, I’m gonna keep doing what I damn well please.”

Clint exhales heavily through his nose. His jaw buckles and you know he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. He hold his hand out for the bottle and you give it to him. Watch his Adams apple bob in his throat as he chugs.

“Well, then you got yourself a partner. We can take out double the amount of crooks together than apart.”

He sets the bottle between your slightly parted thighs and turns to look in the fridge.

“Who says I want a partner?”

“Who says I’m giving you a choice?”

**

Things shift in Barcelona.

He watches as you move with grace. Wielding your katana through the hearts and entrails of men. Blood spattering on your clothes and skin like war paint. It makes him hard. He doesn’t dare mutter a word, but you notice. It brings you joy and you don’t know what to do about it.

He never talks about his family and you know better than to ask. At the end of the day, when you’re both boozed up and buzzed from the alcohol running through your bloodstreams, you retire to your respectful bedrooms.

Until one night.

You come back after going to a local club. You frequent there while he hangs back. Insisting on drinking alone while you socialize. It’s instinct for him to wait up for you, even if it means he’s up until 4 in the morning when you come stumbling in from your lay of the evening.

“I can fuck you better than them.” He slurs when you come in late one night. You’re caught off guard. Unsure of how to reply to a statement like that. “I know how your body works. What it craves. And I’ve never even laid a finger on you.” He chuckles.

“Go to bed, Barton. You don’t know what you’re saying.” You shake your head and grab two bottles of water from the refrigerator, tossing one over to him.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it.” He mumbles, just audible enough for you to hear. He pulls himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in and corners you against the kitchen counter. Cages you in between his arms. Warm whiskey breath fanning against your clavicles. “When I pushed you too hard in training. When I’d piss you off just to get a rise out of you. Even if it was spiteful. Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

You feel yourself clench. Desperate. Though you’d just been fucked by some Spanish millionaire, you hadn’t been satisfied. You never left satisfied. Had to get yourself off when you returned home. He always heard you through the thin walls.

You push him back. Not daring to look at him. “Go to bed, Clint.”

He watches your bedroom door close and reluctantly obeys. Doesn’t fall asleep until he cums all over his chest, listening to your soft moans from the next room over as you once again fein for your own orgasm.

**

He fucks you for the first time in Cannes.

The French Riviera is peaceful to the blind eye. Perfect for arms dealers to make their trades. No one expects for there to be such crime underlying in the beauty of the city. The scene is gruesome. Entrails spilling out of the slaughtered corpses. Brain matter, intestines, and _God_ , the blood. He found art in your fury. Your wrath. 

_Fuck_ , it makes him hard.

He can’t find it in himself to feel ashamed for it.

You’re riding a high. Both of you. Chests heaving as you calm from the fight you’ve just endured. Your mind in clouded. Reeling. Your body tingles and is almost numb, but you feel Clint grab your hand and pull you from the warehouse. You don’t know where he’s going. Doubt that he even knows. But you let him lead you.

One of the upscale hotels along the beach. He takes you through the back entrance and guides you up the stairs. It seems endless until he reaches his destination. Roof access. You have no idea how he knew about this place. You couldn’t think about it too much. The view of the sun setting along the beach was enough to knock the wind out of you.

He cages you from behind. Muscular warms surrounding you as his hands wrap around the railing loosely. His chest provides warmth on your back. The contrast of the cool evening breeze makes goosebumps appear on your skin. His nose buries in your hair and he inhales your scent; sweat and metal with a touch of lavender from your shampoo.

“I have to have you.” He mutters in your ear. He wisps your hair to the side and his lips graze the back of your neck. You allow yourself to rest against him, head falling back on his shoulder. The tight corset top you wear gives him an eyeful of your supple breasts and he groans from deep within his chest. “Have to bury my cock in that tight little pussy. Need to feel you clench around me. Need to make you cum.”

He ruts his hips into your ass and you can feel the truth of his words from the erection digging into the small of your back.

His hands grip your hips to keep you flush against him and his nose runs along the shell of your ear. “I need some kind of confirmation, kid. You can tell me to fuck off and I’ll never touch you like this again. Won’t ever bring it up. But silence isn’t good enough.”

“Do it.” Your voice betrays you. The words fall from a whisper, but your nod assures him of them. “Do it.” You repeat. “Fuck me.”

His calloused hands push the leather of your uniform pants down enough to gain access to what he wants. Your panties are soaked and you’re relieved that he frees you from them.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected. There’s a slight sting as he stretches you, but you revel in it. The pain anchors you. Keeps your head from disappearing too far into the clouds.

Your knuckles turn white from the grip you have on the railing as you push back against him to meet his thrusts. Clint wraps an arm around your waist, not letting you stray too far away from his body. He wants you close. Wants to feel the coil in your belly burst when you cum.

It’s messy. Rushed. But it’s a release you both needed more than you’d like to admit.

His climax drips down the inside of your thighs. You hate the thought of pulling the leather back up your legs and walking back to the hotel like this. But it ignites something in the dark corner of your mind. You secretly relish in it. The utter filth. It makes you more aroused. But you’ll never tell him that.

**

It starts to become routine.

Kill. Slay. Slaughter. _Fuck_.

He takes you in alleyways and the behind buildings. Sometimes you’ll suck his dick while he drives back to your temporary residence. Make him nearly drive into oncoming traffic with the way your tongue laps against the vein protruding on the underside of his length. His hand tangles in your hair. Not to guide you. Not to force you. To anchor himself because _God_ , he needs to touch you.

He paints the back of your throat in sticky white ribbons. You pull off of him and swallow his seed proudly, knowing the way it affects him to watch your throat bob.

“Drives me fuckin’ crazy when you do that, kid.” He chuckles.

He fingers you in return for the duration of the tip. Stuffs his appendages until he’s knuckle deep. Curling and pumping his digits, palm rubbing roughly against your clit until you’re writing in the passengers seat.

You have unspoken rules.

No sex when you arrive at your flat, hotel, or apartment. No acknowledgment of the sin you both took part in.

You never kiss on the mouth. Too intimate. Your lips bruise his neck. Leave marks to admire in silence throughout the day.

But rules were meant to be broken.

It surprises you that you’re the one to initiate it.

The water in Clint’s shower shuts off and he opens the bathroom door, clouds of steam surrounding him as he steps into his bedroom with a towel around his waist. You’d been pacing. Contemplating.

His lips curl up into a smile and he steps closer. “Hey, pretty girl.” He coos. He’s never called you that. Usually refers to you by your name or ‘kid’. You look lost. Lost in your own thoughts. He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch.

“I need it.” You confess. “I need it, Clint.”

He nods wordlessly. Pulls you to his chest and pushes your hair aside to trail his lips along the side of your neck. His hands roam your body, following your curves and removing your clothes along the way.

You don’t think. You allow your body to do the talking.

His towel falls around his feet and his cock bounces, grazes your hip, smearing precum on your skin. He brushes his fingers against your core, gathering your arousal and coating your folds with it. You nudge him to the bed and he sits at the edge, eyes locked with yours as you straddle him.

He slides into you with ease now, but your walls constrict so perfectly around him that you’re still tight. Your hands grip his shoulders as you begin a steady pace. He takes a nipple into his mouth and suckles gently at first, but it doesn’t take long for him to become greedy.

Your eyes never leave the other’s. It makes your walls clamp around him and you feel him twitch inside of you.

His fingertips dig into the flesh of your ass. He guides you effortlessly as you ride him and he can feel that familiar coil begin to unravel.

“Clint,” His name emits through a whimper.

“I know. I know, baby. I’m there too. Cum for me, pretty girl. Let go for me.” His words of encouragement are soft pleas. Its what you need to set you off.

Your hips roll against his and you begin to lose your rhythm. He watches your face contort and he can’t fucking help himself any longer. His hands cup your face and he crashes his lips into yours.

You return the kiss with just as much passion. Tongues and teeth, licking and biting fervently until you begin your descent from euphoria.

He brushes your hair out of your face and holds you to him, letting your forehead rest against his.

**

You lay with him in his bed. Your naked bodies resting perpendicular to one another. You’re on your back and he lays on his side, running his fingertips up and down the inside of your thigh, tailing up your abdomen and tracing the curves of your breasts.

“You’re beautiful.” He says softly.

The comment makes you roll your eyes, but the corners of your lips curl upward.

“Don’t go falling in love now, Barton. It won’t end well for you.” You tease, using the words he told you the first night he found you months back.

But it was too late. You’d both begun to dig your graves and were in too deep to come out of them unscathed.

That was a thought for a different day. 


End file.
